I
by HarvestMoonRacoon
Summary: I bid my blood to run. Lee's hidden masochist life.


I'm a cutter.  
The term sounds generic, like a status label pasted on the foreheads of youth as a warning to the general public who does not enjoy slicing themselves with sharp objects.I never thought that slicing myself open with a sharp object would be so rewarding.

A year ago, if you said "cut", I would have gone pale and tried to change the subject. It's a social taboo, self dismemberment.  
Something about slicing yourself open frightens people, even when it doesn't frighten you.  
Thing is, it does frighten me.

I shake with fear when I pull out the knife.

Somewhere inside me, I don't want to do it. But the another me takes over, and I sigh in relief as the blood drips down my arm.

It's almost enlightening.  
It's like I'm two people. One of them is the façade I put on for people. And the other is the real me.  
It's a mask I wear, and the eyes are more empty then those of an ANBU.

They're made that way. So that the enemy stares into nothingness. It hides the identity of the wearer, but also distinguishing them as Shinobi.  
Perhaps the reason I fear cutting myself is because if I were to hit a vital artery, I would have no way of protecting myself.

I couldn't mold my chakra to heal the wound. I couldn't stop the blood, even if I tried.  
And perhaps that is why I'm drawn to it.

The adrenaline of it all. The knowing that this time I sit down to hack at myself, I may not ever stand up again.

That someone will find my cold body on a bloody bedroll some day s later, rotting in a stale white room devoid of every possible interaction.  
I don't know who would care if I died. Gai-sensei might care. He'd bawl his eyes out.

TenTen would probably look sad. She's so brave all the time. I don't even know if it would sadden her, anyway.  
Neji wouldn't even care.  
The other children wouldn't care, either. They all despise me.  
I don't understand. All I did was try to be their friend.

In spite of my weaknesses, and my pain, I persevered. Naruto did the same.

As the Kyuubi vessel, he fights everyday to become a Hokage.  
Why is his struggle more valiant then mine? Do I not work as hard, or harder then him to become a great Shinobi? Do you see Naruto running around the city before the sun rises, futilely training for another day of hard work, only to be disheartingly defeated?

No.

I sit down in the darkness of the cold room. The walls are white, starched white. Like a hospital room.  
Plain and devoid of life, like the city now.  
It's dark outside. The sun's disappeared from the sky, leaving it dark indigo and dotted with pale stars like diamonds on a black cloth.

I might think it beautiful, were not more pressing matters on my mind.  
Truth be told, not many Shinobi notice things like that.

They're too busy running around, training, serving, dying, living, giving, trading, and being the very essence of the word "ninja.  
No one stirs in the streets below. The city is so deathly quiet, as though all it's residents had died.  
But haven't we?  
Haven't we all at least once died? And the remainder have died to live.  
And it's unfair.  
But I learned a long time ago not to expect fairness.

No one actually cares.

They may pretend to love you, pretend to care for you, but they actually don't.

Because everybody's living in their own imagination.

Everybody's waiting in their own little world.

Everybody's all hurried up, bottled up, trying to make a dream come true.  
But dreams don't come true.  
In my dream, I have parents. I have people who love me for who I am. I have friends who actually want to be around me and don't use me for their own purposes. Of course, my dreams will never come true.  
No one's really do. People just like to pretend they do so they can put on a face for the crowd.  
Or perhaps they do. Maybe, once again, I'm on the outside looking in. Missing out on joy that might keep me alive. But I don't wonder, or even care anymore.  
I don't dream anymore.  
When I sleep, it is dreamless, fitful, unfulfilling.

I don't feel recharged, just lonely as I pull my legs to my chest and rest my head against the cold white wall, waiting for sunlight to touch my face so that I can escape out of my bed and out into a world that hates my very existence. It's better then pulling the covers over my head and trying to fall back asleep. It's like an abyss, dark, forbidding, cold.  
I no longer try to become a good Shinobi.

I thought surely Gai-sensei might come to see me, ask me why I didn't come to train today, why I wasn't waiting at the training site for the rest of my team. I thought, hoped, prayed, maybe, just maybe, he would come and save me.

I thought Gai was the only person who loved me. I thought only he could call my name and save me from the dark.

But he can't.

Because he doesn't care.

He doesn't love me.

I'm not his son anymore. I used to smile when we'd walk down the road together and people would say, "What an adorable son you have," or "Your boy looks just like you." . I'd grin and step closer t him, following directly behind him. I wasn't his son, but the mistake they made never failed to make me feel as though I were. Gai was my sensei, my teacher, my inspiration.

But now he's not.

Now cold, death, pain and fear is my inspiration.

Pain is my teacher. It whispers "See what happens? You can't trust anybody. Even your beloved Gai-sensei has hurt you. You are nothing but a doormat for others to walk upon and use at their will. No one loves you"

I know.

I know I am nothing.

I am preparing to cut nothing. I am preparing to mutilate nothing.

I pull my shirt up to my chest, revealing the pale skin of my stomach.

The flesh is soft, weak. And I curse it.

I curse my weakness, my fear. I am not supposed to feel.

I am cold, colder then these four white walls that are suffocating me, harder then the walls around my heart.

I might call for help, but I don't.

Don't save me.

Don't save me from this nothing I've become.

The kunai glistens in my hands. I feel fear, hatred, sadness, broken trust, and sorrow.  
I steel myself mentally and physically. There is no escape.

This cut shall be deep, deep enough to hide my sadness and my sorrow.

I have no hope, not even hope born of suffering. If this is only the beginning, can I not wait for one more hour, watching for a savior?

No.

I shove the knife into the pale white flesh.  
Finally.

Ecstasy.


End file.
